


Love, in fire and blood

by Black_Betty



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, Gay Mutant Road Trip, M/M, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5270201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik used his body as a tool in all ways, but it had always been as a means for destruction. He did not know how to be soft or tender, and had never had use for gentleness before.</p><p>Until Charles.</p><p>(AKA Erik is too afraid of hurting Charles to let him try anything, but Charles persists, as he does.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, in fire and blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mssdare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/gifts).



> Happy Holidays!! You mentioned in your secret mutant letter that you were relatively new to fandom - welcome!! You are lovely and your prompts were lovely, and I hope this is close to what you wanted :))
> 
> Many thanks to [redacted] for cheerleading and literally dragging me through the finish line on this one!!!

It wasn’t that Erik was inexperienced. There was nothing pure or virginal about him; not even his hands were clean, no matter how many times he scrubbed at the rough, blistered skin. There had been countless late nights in faceless apartments or hollowed out hotel rooms. Countless men or women whose faces he’s forgotten, whose names he never knew. Sex was something perfunctory or mechanical, something to ease the ache in his chest for a few moments of flesh and sweat before slipping back into the shadows.

He knew about sex, knew how limbs and genitals fit together in the same way he knew how to fit a silencer onto a gun, or the brittleness of a neck if snapped in the correct direction. Erik used his body as a tool in all ways, but it had always been as a means for destruction. He did not know how to be soft or tender, and had never had use for gentleness before.

Until Charles.

“Everything alright?”

In the muted light of the bar Charles’ eyes are dark and luminous as they examine him from over the rim of his glass. He takes a slow sip of his martini and Erik’s eyes snag briefly on the press of his bottom lip against the glass before snapping away to the centre of the club and the crush of people in glittering sequins and gold.

“Fine,” he says shortly, watching as a woman at the adjacent table bends over to touch her cigarette to the lighter of her dinner partner, her throat lit appealingly by the flame. There is a slow dance of seduction circuiting through the room and Erik can feel it on his skin like crackling static in the wake of a thunderstorm. His eyes are drawn back to Charles as he sets his drink down, idly twisting the stem of the glass to make the liquor swirl back and forth.

They’ve been drinking for what feels like hours, celebrating their last night before they head back to Virginia in the morning. It feels like the lingering strands of a surreal dream before reality filters in, their time on the road an abstract part of Erik’s life that doesn’t fit in with the rest.

Something about Charles breeds enthusiasm and Erik has found himself agreeing to pointless little outings like this one throughout their trip. He has never been one for luxury or self-indulgence but he finds himself drunk on Charles’ focus and his slow smile, and the way he can feel the tension bleeding from his spine, his bones aching before settling into place.

“You’re miles away tonight.”

“I said I’m fine.” He picks up his glass and swallows the rest of his whiskey. This night feels headier than usual, the alcohol rushing to his head and heating his cheeks, the chatter and weight of the room pushing against him. Charles is close enough for Erik to see the pool of sweat in the hollow of his throat as he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, to feel yhe heat of his body has he sinks deeper into the cushions of their curving velvet booth. The pale lines of his skin stand out in stark contrast to everything else, his lips and eyes more precious than any jewel in the room, and Erik can’t look away, can’t stop himself from imagining his hands on that skin, hard enough to bruise, his teeth at that throat drawing blood –

He looks down into his empty glass. He feels suddenly sick and suffocated.

“I need another drink.” As he moves to slide out of the booth, Charles rests a hand on his sleeve and says, “Wait,” his fingers curling into the fabric and branding Erik’s skin in five burning points. When Erik looks at him, Charles’ attention is locked onto where they touch, one of his fingers slipping under the cuff of Erik’s sleeve to gently caress the paper-thin skin of his wrist.

Erik pulls his hand away. “Don’t, Charles.”

It’s a familiar dance, one Charles has become bolder with the more time they spent together on the road, sharing rooms and breakfast tables and slow moving games of chess. He flinches when Charles’ hand dips under the table and rests lightly on his knee.

“You forget that I can read your mind,” Charles whispers teasingly, one hand sneaking further up Erik’s thigh, fingers tracing the seam of his trousers. Erik's mind is thick with alcohol and a sudden wave of lust. He’s not sure if it’s coming from Charles or from himself, but he grabs Charles’ wrist and squeezes him just tightly enough to make him stop.

“Yes,” he growls, staring him down. “You claim to know everything about me - don’t you know what I can do to you?”

Images of tight hands on flesh, of knives, of blood flash through his mind quick enough to blind him, and he hurls the violent thoughts out toward Charles like bullets. He watches as they strike home within Charles’ mind and waits for him to recoil but he doesn’t. He doesn’t grow pale or look afraid or disgusted. Instead his eyes flick across Erik’s face and he says, very casually, “You could hurt me, if you like.”

The words echo between them and Erik sits frozen for a minute as the rest of the room fades to black in the corners of his eyes. All at once his stomach lurches and he can taste whiskey and bile in the back of his throat. He drops Charles’ wrist as though he’s been burned and moves to escape the booth, knocking against the table in his haste and spilling Charles’ drink. He can hear Charles curse, can feel the eyes of the club patrons turning toward him curiously, but he pushes through the crowd, attention fixed on the glowing EXIT sign at the far end of the room.

Outside he swallows cold air and tries to stop himself from vomiting on the pavement. It had rained while they were in the club and he grounds himself in the slick pavement, the feeling of water on lampposts and sewer grates and the slow crawl of cars through the 3am streets. A group of men standing around the entrance watch him disdainfully as they smoke, waiting to see if he’s another drunk about to make a mess of their shoes. He quickly moves around the corner of the building and finds an alley full of trash and burned out cigarettes. He presses his palms against the brick wall and tries to breathe, knocks his head against the wall once and then again to try and get the red haze to filter from his vision.

He can feel the familiar metal of Charles’ watch exit the building and move toward him, finding him unerringly in the dark. He takes another breath and looks up. Charles is standing on the sidewalk, just outside the dirt and shadow of the alleyway. He’s stopped underneath the streetlight and his unruly hair is painted gold, his cheeks and shoulders dusted in light. It hurts Erik to look at him but he straightens and moves to the mouth of the alleyway and returns Charles’ considering gaze.

“We should probably head back,” Charles says finally, his hands in his pockets, his demeanor calm as though nothing had happened back in the bar, as though they both hadn’t revealed something they shouldn’t have.

Erik heads toward the car and Charles follows him, watching as he skirts his way around the pool of light on the wet sidewalk.

***

In the beat of one day to the next they are on a plane out of the country, and they never get around to talking about that night in the club. In Russia he leaves a wake of destruction for Charles to follow like breadcrumbs, razor wire and bloodied guards, Emma Frost with metal around her diamond neck, and thinks, _This is what I am_. Charles looks at him and says nothing in return, and Erik wonders if he’s pushed Charles so far away that even his mind is lost to him now. His vicious heart tells him it’s for the best, even as it breaks.

In the end, all the fury and violence in the world isn’t enough to stop Shaw from spreading his poison. Darwin is dead and Angel is gone and he feels like everything is spiraling further out of his hands as they regroup at a sprawling mansion in the Westchester countryside. Charles’ gross inheritance is meant to keep them safe from further attack but all Erik can see are unprotected windows and doors, a forest where anyone might hide and ambush them when the sun sets.

The first night he runs the perimeter, runs until he can no longer feel his legs and his chest has moved past bursting. He can feel Charles’ mind brush against his briefly, a warm, fleeting touch there and gone, making sure Erik hasn’t run too far. He collapses into the damp grass by the crumbling greenhouse and stares up at the sky and longs for that touch again, wants everything and nothing, wants to tear the world apart so that he can bury himself within the rubble.

He heads back inside and washes the sweat and dirt from his skin and by the time he exits the room Charles assigned him, he feels like he has mostly pulled himself together behind slicked back hair and sharply pressed trousers.

Charles is, of course, waiting for him on the other side of his door.

“I thought maybe you’d be up for a game?” He smiles, genuine and open. “I’ve gotten used to it over the past few weeks.” His smile turns teasing, “I’m not sure I can fall asleep without trouncing you once or twice before bed.” Erik can’t help his answering grin, though he hesitates before nodding and following Charles down the hallway to his room. He’s sure he’s walking into trap, but he can’t help but follow where Charles’ leads, as always.

The trap doesn’t spring until later. Charles pours them both a glass of brandy and though it warms Erik from the inside out, it does nothing to settle the tension in his spine. All of his instincts are screaming at him to fight, to attack, but he wills himself to move each chess piece slowly across the board instead.

He’s not sure if he wins or loses, is only aware of Charles’ proximity and how the weight and warmth of his body fill the room and makes Erik heavy with want.

"I'm sorry about the other night,” Charles says toward the end of their second game. “I misunderstood." His mind is radiating apology and regret and Erik turns his face away.

“I think you understood enough.”

Charles shakes his head emphatically and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and fixing his eyes on Erik. “I saw what was in your mind and I thought...well.” He coughs, embarrassed. “We both know what I thought.”

Erik doesn't know what he wants, doesn't know what to say. He wants to flee the room but he can't, feels rooted in place under Charles’ earnest gaze.

“But that's not right at all, is it. That's the opposite of what you want.”

“It doesn't matter what I want.” Erik gets to his feet, and Charles follows, blocking his path with one hand on Erik's chest.

“I know you think there's nothing more to you than pain and anger, but it's not true. You're more than that.” He grips Erik suddenly by the arms, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I trust you.”

The words shake him badly. He would have thought that by now he'd be used to the way Charles can see right through him. He twists free of Charles’ hold and pushes past him, heading for the door. Running away again.

“Erik, please.”

His hand is on the doorknob, but he can't bring himself to turn his wrist and escape. Behind him Charles steps closer and gently, gently rests his forehead against Erik's back. Erik can feel his breath through the cotton of his sweater, the pressure of his mind echoed in the weight of his body as he leans against Erik, pressing him into the heavy wooden door.

"I wasn't wrong about this though, was I?" He says it like a statement, his voice low and calm and sure, but Erik can sense his indecision, the question mark that floats from Charles' mind to his own. _You want me?_ Charles raises his head and Erik can feel his lips against the nape of his neck, and the kiss he presses there.

"We can't--" he says. _I can't._

"We can." _Let me show you._

He turns and Charles hands come to his waist, his grip firm and confident. This time the kiss is pressed gently against Erik’s mouth and Erik stands frozen, watching as Charles pulls away to see his reaction. His lips are red and wet and their feeling, soft and full and confident, is imprinted on Erik’s mouth. His focus narrows down to Charles’ face, tipped up and waiting for him, and something breaks in Erik’s brain, the tether holding him back snipped in half with a single kiss.

He grabs Charles and kisses him hard, thumbs digging into the soft underside of his cheekbones. Charles moans and leans up into his embrace, loosening the grip of Erik’s hands with his proximity, pressing into him and biting at his lower lip until Erik gives way and allows him to slip his tongue inside. Erik presses forward again and Charles moves back, changes the angle of their mouths so that Erik is unable to leverage himself or control the kiss. His lungs feel tight, straining for air, and he pulls back finally, his head thumping against the door.

Charles runs soothing hands up and down his chest and then runs his palms down his arms to loop his hands around Erik’s wrists. He squeezes him tightly and moves to place another gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“All right?”

The question makes Erik’s chest tighten and he jerks his wrists free from Charles’ grip, grabs him and shoves him toward the bed.

_I don’t need to be coddled._

He reaches for Charles again and Charles twists in his grip, turning them onto the bed in a tangle and pinning Erik down beneath him.

_I know._

He lunges down and kisses Erik again. They grapple for control but very time Erik feels himself slipping, that simmering aggression lunging out and trying to bite, Charles draws back and gentles the kiss, a push and pull that becomes a rhythm as inescapable at an undertow. They move in and out of this routine until Erik feels dizzy, his heart settling into sync with the pulse of each kiss, each caress.

Charles’ hand slips under his shirt and he flinches involuntarily, his muscles tensing defensively. Charles leans back to look him in the eye but doesn’t move his hand, increases and holds his pressure until Erik’s muscles slowly relax. He sits up and pushes Erik’s shirt up higher on his chest, his hands heavy and slow, and Erik feels each muscle clench and release, unused to touch that isn’t accompanied by violence.

By the time Charles has pushed Erik’s shirt up over his head, his body has unwound and begins to strain toward Charles’ touch. His skin feels lit on fire, sensation skittering around like an electric shock and he wants more, wants Charles to touch him everywhere.

He tries to reach out for Charles in return, hands eager for the feeling of his skin, but Charles leaves Erik’s shirt tangled around his wrists and presses Erik’s hands down into the mattress above his head. “Will you keep these here?”

Erik stares up at him blankly, trying to think past the haze of lust and the pulsing desire to kiss Charles again.

_I can make you keep them there, but only if you want that._

Erik strains against him and Charles lets go easily, sitting back and giving him space. All at once Erik feels adrift, unmoored though Charles still straddles his waist, watching him and waiting patiently for his answer.

 _Yes_ , he whispers into the air between them, not trusting his own voice. _Yes, make me_.

Charles tugs the sweater off of his hands and tosses it over the side of the bed, running his hands over Erik’s palms and locking their fingers together. A brief flicker of intense concentration furrows his eyebrows and suddenly Erik’s wrists are pinned to the bed as though held there by rope or chain.

He panics for a moment, a hot familiar anger rising up in his chest as he thrashes against the restraint, all of his muscles pulling tight and just when he feels he can't breathe--

Everything melts away. He feels release. He looks up to where Charles is watching him carefully, his face half cast in shadow from the bedside lamp, watches as he bends slowly and places a kiss against Erik's forehead and another against his cheek, making his way down to his lips and throat, lingering over his heart and stopping at the waistband of his trousers.

He sits up and unbuttons his shirt, slides off the bed to discard his shoes and socks, shimmying off his trousers in an awkward maneuver before returning to the bed. Erik watches him strip and pulls against the invisible hold on his hands once more, yearning to touch all of his flawless skin, and suddenly glad that his hands are kept safely away from that perfection.

“Can I…?” Charles gestures at the button of Erik's trousers and Erik nods, biting his lip as Charles undoes his fly and eases them down his legs, hands smoothing over his knees and ankles, rolling his socks down and pressing his fingers into the arches of his feet. Charles’ eyes slowly rove over his body and when he whispers, _God you're beautiful,_ into Erik's mind, the words fill him up like honey.

He bends down and breathes over Erik's cock through his briefs, making him twitch and thrash. He's had men and women take him in this way before, but it was always with Erik's fingers twisted cruelly in their hair, his hips thrusting brutally. With Charles it feels almost tender, the way he pulls his briefs away, the way his mouth slips over the head of his cock and his eyes flutter shut with a moan. When Erik thrusts, his hips unable to keep still at the feeling of Charles’ mouth, at the way he looks lying in between Erik's legs and the pleasure he's broadcasting through their link, Charles holds him still, his broad hands steady against the sharp bones of Erik’s hips, grounding him further. He’s never been so out of control before, has never given himself up to someone and allowed himself to be held and taken. He realizes he’s never felt so free.

He comes like that, pinned by Charles’ relentless grip on his body, held steady by his mind, his hands and mouth, until Erik can't take it any longer and feels himself ripped apart, body and mind pulled to the farthest corners of the room.

When he comes back to earth Charles is kissing him, holding his hands and rubbing steady circles into his wrists with his thumbs, the pressure just enough to compete with the solid thump of his own heartbeat.

“All right?”

His eyelids feel heavy, his temples damp from sweat, but he nods slowly. He becomes aware of Charles’ cock, hard against his hip where Charles is sprawled between his legs. His hands twitch in Charles’ grasp.

“You didn't - here, let me - “

Charles releases his hands and braces himself above him, letting out a tiny moan when Erik slides his hands under his briefs and grips his ass tight, urging him to grind against him.

It’s easy to project all the things he wants to do to him and with him, to tell him how gorgeous he looks with his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth red and swollen from sucking his cock, how perfect his ass is in his hands. Charles is projecting a steady, yearning pulse that makes Erik ache, and without thinking, blind with lust and affection, he slides one hand between them and wraps his fingers around Charles' cock.  

When Charles comes it cascades through Erik, numbing him head to toe, pulling at his groin until it aches pleasurably. Charles collapses against him and they breathe together, the weight of their bodies pressed together sealing him back into his bones.

Afterwards Erik isn’t sure whether to sleep or put his clothes on and creep back to his own bed, isn’t certain if things have changed irreparably between them. Charles slides lazily out of the bed and pulls his underwear off, wiping half heartedly at the mess on his stomach and groin before heading into the ensuite bathroom. He returns with a wet cloth that he hands to Erik with a smile, drawing him to his feet with a gentle hand around his arm so that he can peel the covers back and dump the decorative, embroidered pillows onto the floor. Once the bed is stripped of everything except clean white linen, he crawls under the sheets completely naked and shameless and places one hand on the bare expanse of the bed next to him.

“Will you stay?”

Erik looks at him, drowsy eyes beneath hair curling across his forehead, the outlines of his collarbones, his ribs. Standing there, Erik feels fragile, like cracked steel on the verge of shattering, like a sword cooled so quickly it becomes brittle. He could snap, he thinks. Even now he can look at the lines of Charles’ bones and picture with perfect clarity how each one would break under a precise and defined amount of pressure. It would be so easy to pin Charles to the bed and smother him, to break his neck with one quick, economical movement. It would be so frighteningly easy to hurt him.

“Erik,” Charles says, his eyes faintly exasperated. “What would it take for me to convince you that you could never hurt me?”

“I could,” Erik snaps, angry at his nonchalance. “How can you trust me? When you know what I’ve done, what I’m capable of?” He’s killed men with the very same hands that pressed into Charles’ skin only minutes ago. Everything he touches, he destroys.

At that, the brief humor in Charles’ eyes fades. “Erik, listen to me,” he says, quietly but with the same force that had kept Erik’s wrists pinned to the bed, the same force that had made Erik shiver with want and need. “You are not a monster. You are not what Shaw made you. You are so much more than that. I’ve seen it.”

Erik shakes his head jerkily. “No.”

“I said before that I trust you – I do. But do you trust me?”

“Charles--”

_Do you trust me?_

How could he not? Charles has seen the darkest parts of Erik that no one else ever has, and he’s still here -- still giving Erik that gentle look that threatens to break Erik apart.

“Yes,” he whispers.

Charles leans forward, his expression beseeching, his hand outstretched.

"Give me your hand." They're close enough that Erik can reach out and slide their fingers together. He sits on the edge of the bed and watches Charles examine his cracked knuckles, the blister along his fingertips, the scars crisscrossing the prominent bones of his hand. Watches as Charles holds his hand as if it is a precious thing and bends to press a kiss against the soft, vulnerable center of his palm.

He remembers driving a knife through a man's hand precisely in that spot in Argentina. The sudden memory makes him draw his hand away, but Charles holds him tight and looks up at him with his peircing, all-knowing eyes.

"I know what these hands have done," he says, and Erik feels that familiar anger rise up in response. 

"I'm not ashamed--"

"I know," Charles says quickly, "I know. But Erik, tonight you put your hands on me and I didn't break. I didn't  feel any pain." He huffs a laugh. "Quite the opposite, actually." He laughs harder when Erik rolls his eyes and tugs him into bed so they're both lying down. Charles presses close and tangles their legs together, Erik's hand clasped between his palms, his eyes suddenly serious and intent. 

"I want you to be able to touch me without fear. I'm stronger than I look and I'm not afraid of you. You are more than violence and these scars."

His eyes slide shut and he bumps their foreheads lightly together.

"You said you trust me, so trust me." 

Erik does trust him. He does. But even so, long after Charles has fallen asleep, Erik holds him and measures the width of his hand against the fragile skin of his shoulder, his back. He listens to him breathe and remembers the way he felt when Charles  held him down, and how his hands gripped Charles skin in the heat and heady pulse of the moment. He touches Charles again and again and is surprised each time his hands don't leave a mark.

His last thought before he falls asleep is that in the dark, his hands look as clean as Charles' do, their intertwined fingers nearly indistinguishable in the moonlight.

 


End file.
